


On Your Mark, Get Set...

by sariane



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Crack, Gen, Humor, Phil Coulson Has the Patience of a Saint, especially where Clint Barton is concerned, not to mention Tony Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 05:37:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/949235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sariane/pseuds/sariane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>GO!</i>
</p><p>The Avengers have a race. On the helicarrier. With rolling office chairs. They need a referee.</p><p>Phil doesn't get paid enough for this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Your Mark, Get Set...

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally posted [on my tumblr](http://sarriane.tumblr.com/post/59694536415) in response to the prompt:
> 
> [dottedmelon](http://dottedmelon.tumblr.com) asked: FF prompt: Avengers having an office chair race on the helicarrier.
> 
> As usual, it's complete crack. :)

“Coulson, I’m receiving reports that there is a disturbance on Level Three.”

Phil twisted his face into a neutral expression. Or, well, he _tried_.

“Director Fury,” Phil said to Fury’s scowling face on his tablet. “Yes. There is a…situation,” he said, trying not to glance up at the fiasco in the hallway before him.

“I expect you’re handling it,” Fury said, raising an eyebrow.

Somewhere behind Phil, someone yelled, “LET’S GO, THOR!” Phil flinched.

“Yes, sir. I’ll update you if the situation changes.” Phil hung up before Fury heard any more of the commotion in the hallway.

“Coulson!” Clint yelled, although he was only a few feet away. “Come on! You ready?”

“No,” Phil sighed. He handed his tablet to Dr. Banner, who took it with a soft smile. Phil suspected that his reasons for opting out were less because of safety concerns and more a matter of dignity.

“We’ve got approximately ninety seconds until the Director comes down himself to see what’s going on,” Natasha said.

“Honey, you’ll be eating my dust before he even has time to get out of his chair,” Stark smirked. Natasha glared at him. “Uh, scratch the ‘honey,’ bit,” he said, face falling. Clint snorted.

Phil walked across the line of tape someone had marked on the floor. It was their starting line.

“Is everyone ready?” he said. Thor and Steve looked at one another, probably wondering why the hobbies of people in this century were so strange.

“The question is not if I am ready, but if the others are ready to taste defeat,” Thor said triumphantly.

“You ready, Rogers?” Stark said, turning to bump elbows with Steve.

Steve held back a chuckle. “Ready to win, you mean?” he said, raising an eyebrow in a challenge.

Phil cleared his throat before he raised his voice over the chatter of the Avengers and the gathered SHIELD agents. Somewhere, Maria Hill whistled to quiet the audience.

“The rules are: no sabotage, no use of powers, no upgrades on racing equipment, and absolutely _no_ physical contact with the other racers. First person to the finish line wins. Understood?” Phil said, eyeing down each of the Avengers in turn.

“I have a question, sir,” Clint said, raising his hand above his head with a smirk.

Phil glared at him, but Clint only grinned wider.

“Yes?” he sighed, long-sufferingly.

“If we’re not allowed to use powers, does that mean I win by default?” Clint asked with a sparkle in his eyes.

“Racers to the start line,” Phil said by way of an answer. He stood against the wall, out of the way of the contestants.  “On your mark—“ he raised the flag, a piece of A4 paper taped to a pencil, “—get set—“ they hunched forward, ready to go, “—GO!” Phil dropped the flag.

With rumbling as loud as a herd of buffalo, five of the Avengers set off down the hallway of the SHIELD helicarrier, their “borrowed” office chairs rolling them towards the finish line.

The crowd began to scream and cheer, each for their chosen hero.

Initially, Stark was in the lead, his feet a blur on the slick floors, but Steve soon overtook him.

“We’re off! We have Steve Rogers and Tony Stark fighting for the lead at the front, with Thor and Natasha Romanoff close behind,” a voice said. Phil turned to see who was commentating. It was Jasper Sitwell, standing at the head of the crowd holding a megaphone and a small pair of binoculars. Nice touch.

“Clint Barton is, unfortunately yet predictably, behind,” Sitwell announced.

“Fuck you, Sitwell,” Clint’s shout echoed back through the hallway.

“But it seems Romanoff is gaining on Thor…now she’s passed him…and she’s close behind Rogers and Stark!”

Stark and Rogers were both hunched over in their chairs, frantically pushing towards the finish line. Phil squinted at Tony’s chair to see a tiny jet stream coming from under it, propelling the chair faster. He frowned.

“What’s this? It seems that Stark is in possession of illegal upgrades! This commentator is not surprised, however. It seems Stark just can’t let himself lose to Captain America, whatever the cost.”

To Phil’s relief, Rogers was up to the challenge. He began to gain on Tony. Just as Steve passed him, Tony pressed something on his chair and rammed into Steve, driving the both of them towards a wall.

“There seems to be quite the grudge match out on the—“

“Gimme that,” Phil said, tugging the megaphone from Sitwell’s hands. “Stark, Rogers, you are both disqualified,” he announced as Rogers spun Stark’s chair across the hallway, both of them laughing raucously.

“And now Thor is in the lead,” Sitwell said into his reclaimed megaphone. “With—is that Mjolnir?”

“Did he start out with that?” Phil said, turning to Bruce, who was struggling to conceal his laughter. He shrugged. Phil grabbed the megaphone again.

Thor was sitting cross-legged in his chair with his feet off the ground and his hammer held out in front of him. He sped through the hallway past Romanoff and towards the finish line.

“Thor, you are also disqualified,” Phil announced. A large portion of the crowd groaned in disappointment; Thor appeared to be a fan-favorite. Sitwell tugged the megaphone from Phil’s hands with a glare.

“Our only two remaining contenders are Romanoff and Barton,” Sitwell said. “Romanoff may be in the lead, but Barton is quickly catching up. Will this competition be the split in their longtime friendship? Will it tear them apart? Will it be the final straw in Barton’s long list of failures, and –“

Sitwell cut off as Romanoff’s chair began to rattle dangerously. Phil watched with bated breath as a bolt popped off the chair and bounced down the hallway. Romanoff tilted to the side, gripping onto the arms of the chair tightly. Just as the top of the office chair began to slide from the base, Romanoff lifted herself up by the chair arms and flipped over the back of the chair, propelling herself through the air.

The crowd gasped, but Phil watched with approval as Natasha rolled to her feet and stuck the landing. She flipped her red hair up out of her face. If Phil was closer, he knew he’d probably see rage sparking in her eyes.

“Ouch! It seems Romanoff is out of the race after a technological fault! Tough break. But not for Barton, the underdog, who is moments from the finish line. I always knew he had it in him. You go, Hawkeye!”

Phil sighed as Barton turned in his chair to give Sitwell the finger. Clint grinned and winked back at them, but the crowd was already running towards the finish line. Phil kept ahead of them in a fast walk, not keen to get caught up in the crush of junior agents.

Whooping, Clint swiveled in his chair just in time to run through the yellow caution tape that made up the finish line ribbon – and right into Nick Fury.

Fury was quick, stopping Barton’s chair with his boot clamped firmly on the seat in between Barton’s knees.

Phil stopped right behind Clint’s chair just in time to hear him actually _gulp_.

“Barton,” Phil said, his voice calm, “you are disqualified for sabotaging Agent Romanoff’s vehicle.”

“Aww, Coulson,” Clint groaned. “You can’t prove anything!”

Fury glared down at Barton, silencing his protest.

“Then,” he said gruffly, looking from Clint to Phil, “I would like to congratulate Agent Romanoff on her victory.”

Natasha flipped her hair over her shoulder as she stepped around Clint’s chair to take a large metal cup from Fury. She held it triumphantly and smiled wickedly as the crowd began to chant her name. Bruce hi-fived her as she passed.

Fury turned on his heel, coat billowing out behind him as he walked back down the hallway, back to the deck of the helicarrier.

“This sucks,” Clint sighed.

“She would have won even _without_ you helping her,” Phil observed. Clint shrugged.

“Whatever,” he said, spinning around in his chair. He stopped after a few revolutions, and then looked up at Phil. When he smirked, Phil braced himself. “Hey, sir…” Clint grinned, opening his hands invitingly. “Want a ride?”


End file.
